


White Gold

by elfbones



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Changing Tenses, Incest, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Turgon is willfully oblivious, Uncle/Nephew Incest, and therefore, and this is the most awkward hair braiding session in history, lightly seasoned with angst, or vague hints of it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfbones/pseuds/elfbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon encounters a snag. Maeglin lends a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Gold

_The accursed thing pinches_ , Turgon thinks to himself for what must be the twentieth time today.  
  
By the time he realized that he had made a very poor selection of jewels that morning he was halfway through a discussion with his lords, and could not reach back to extricate the offensive bauble from his hair without looking a fool. Several times throughout the meeting he had caught both his daughter and his nephew glancing questioningly at him. _Always the most perceptive_ , he thought with both pride and slight irritation. He regretted that he had not been able to reassure them, but it would be improper to interrupt discourse for such an inconsequential matter as an annoying hair ornament. Surely he had enough control over his own body and reactions that the slight twinging should be easy to ignore. He had endured far worse things.  
  
Yet it was _hours_ before he could get away, and now the constant tugging on his scalp is driving him to distraction. He had almost snapped at an assistant who stopped him in the halls to ask him a question as he attempted to make his escape - he made a mental note to apologize to the boy later; he looked a bit distraught. After that he endeavored to walk as quickly as he could without looking as though he was fleeing, but it still seems too long before he reaches the sanctuary of his personal study.  
  
Turgon allows himself a sigh of relief upon crossing the threshold, but that damnable pinching prevents him from truly relaxing. He has no trouble reaching the back of his head to solve the problem now, his fingers easily finding the clasp to release it, but when he pulls gently at it the clasp catches at the strands of his hair and yanks abominably. Vaguely he wonders what in the world he did to cause it to become so tangled, as he prods and fiddles to no avail.  
  
He flails halfway around in his frustrated attempts to rid himself of the thing. With a terrible certainty he knows that he must look like a marionette with its strings cut, twirling about with jerky and awkward movements. It's at this very moment, of course, that he turns enough to see Maeglin standing frozen in the doorway.  
  
They stare at one another. In a detached corner of his mind, Turgon finds himself wondering (not for the first time) if Maeglin's eyes even possess irises, so dark and unfathomable are they. At the moment however, Turgon would judge him surprised, and perhaps a bit confused, going by the wideness of his eyes and his slightly open mouth. Turgon's arms are still raised awkwardly, but in that bare second it doesn't occur to him to lower them.  
  
Suddenly the strange stillness passes, and Maeglin staggers back a step while Turgon lowers his arms. It's with a pang that Turgon recognizes fear in his expression, and he notices the sheaf of paper in his hands. Maeglin must have come here to confer with him over some project.  
  
"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to intrude - you said the door would be open - " Maeglin stutters out at the same time Turgon says "Please, come in."  
  
Turgon smiles softly at him as he comes to an abrupt halt, and says again: "It's alright. Please come in."  
  
Maeglin still has a wary look to him, but he steps fully into the room, standing stiffly as though at attention. Turgon suppresses a sigh, and then a wince as the now further tangled ornament tugs again, and then an embarrassed flush as he realizes that he has rumpled his clothes in all his ridiculous flailing. He tries to smooth himself down as subtly as he can as he inclines his head to his nephew in the hope that he might relax a bit.  
  
A moment later he realizes that he need not. Maeglin's gaze is on the ornament suspended haphazardly by his tangles, and Turgon thinks he sees calculation in those sharp eyes, though it is as hard to tell with certainty as ever. He wonders if he will ever be proficient at reading Maeglin's expressions, for all the time he spends studying them. The boy has always been a bit of a puzzle.  
  
"May I help?" Maeglin asks, breaking the king out of his thoughts. Turgon looks at the hand partly extended towards him, a gesture towards his head which Maeglin aborts halfway through. He nods slowly at the boy, smiling slightly again in a way he hopes is reassuring, and says "Please."  
  
Maeglin pauses for a moment to lay his work carefully on a side table. Then he steps up to his uncle, less hesitant than before, and Turgon remains still to allow him to work. It's not often that his nephew touches anyone of his own accord. He feels rather like someone attempting to court a shy horse, needing to keep his movements slow and relaxed for fear of spooking.  
  
Maeglin's fingers test the metal caught in his hair without the slightest twitch of pain, sliding beneath to separate the strands. Next Turgon hears and feels a strange metallic picking, and wonders for a moment if Maeglin is actually taking the entire thing apart. He doesn't have long to wonder, for Maeglin quickly says "Done."  
  
Turgon turns slightly to look, and immediately finds that he feels much better, suddenly free of the dragging weight. Maeglin holds the gold and silver piece in one hand - now two pieces, he notes. So he did take it apart, in under a minute, without pulling on a single hair.  
  
"The mechanism was very poorly made." Maeglin notes, distaste in his tone, as though the idea of a substandard mechanism personally offends him. Perhaps it does, Turgon thinks - it wouldn't be surprising, knowing the unfailing attention to detail he puts into his own work. For the life of him Turgon can't seem to remember how he obtained this particular bauble. Perhaps a gift from one of the young apprentices? He knows that he has many such gifts stashed away, unable to rid himself of them, and feeling poorly about it if he doesn't try to wear them at least once.  
  
"Thank you," he says, reaching to take it from Maeglin. He would say more, perhaps something lighthearted to set his nephew at ease, but Maeglin seems to freeze again at the brief brush of skin. Turgon knows better than to make anything of it, and moves measuredly to stow the broken ornament in the bureau a few steps away.  
  
"May I...?" says an impossibly quiet voice behind him, and Turgon turns with surprise. It's a bit unusual for Maeglin to make sudden requests, though Turgon has repeatedly atempted to make it clear that he may ask anything. He looks towards his nephew questioningly, and finds the expression in those dark eyes completely unreadable this time. But before he can say anything, Maeglin continues.  
  
"Your hair." he says, gesturing somewhat less stiltedly now. "It's still tangled. I could fix it for you."  
  
"Ah, thank you, Maeglin. That would be nice." Turgon says warmly, further surprised but pleased by the offer.  
  
Unexpectedly, Maeglin seems embarrassed. He shifts back a bit, as though he might be crowding Turgon all the way from the other side of the chaise. A wave of sadness washes over him. He wonders if he will ever see Maeglin truly at home here.  
  
It's clear that Maeglin is uneasy even asking him something so simple, so Turgon moves towards the chaise without prompting to spare him the further discomfort of being the first to move. He settles himself on the edge, assuming that sitting might make this less uncomfortable, and gestures an invitation for Maeglin to join him.  
  
Maeglin simply looks at him for a moment, his expression strangely unreadable again. The pause passes almost too quickly to notice, and he sidles in next to his uncle gracefully. Maeglin sits a little closer than he expected - their legs are almost up against one another, and he can feel the barest whisper of Maeglin's breath disturbing his hair. If they were not close relatives this might be a little strange, but many times in his youth he sat with his parents and siblings in not so different a way, and with Idril too when she was young, so he thinks nothing of it.

Conscious of their height difference, Turgon leans down a bit so that Maeglin may reach him more easily. There's another brief pause before he feels fingers sliding carefully through his hair, nimbly teasing tangles apart without breaking any strands. The smooth, almost rhythmic strokes are rather soothing. Turgon relaxes, leaning a little more into it. Maeglin only falters in his task once, when the slight change in position causes their legs to rest against one another more fully, but he resumes as if nothing has troubled him, so Turgon remains as he is.  
  
Maeglin's hands continue smoothing through his hair for a long while after the strands stop catching at his fingers. It feels nice, but Turgon wonders, rather conflictedly, if Maeglin believes he must continue until told to stop, and whether it would better to do so or let him continue. He worries that Maeglin might take it the wrong way, as admonishment or some such thing, and then he knows the boy will avoid him for days or weeks. If that happens he fears absurdly that Maeglin might not consent to this kind of simple closeness again, and would resume shrugging out of his reach whenever he attempts to extend a hand.  
  
It's not long after that when Maeglin finally stops, though Turgon can feel him hesitate with a few ribbons of hair still in his grasp. Perhaps he finally realizes how much time has passed, or perhaps he never recognized when the last tangle was finished in the first place? In either case, Maeglin's voice is almost startling when it breaks the quiet peace which had sprung up around them. The silence had been so companionable that Turgon had barely noticed it.  
  
"I could," Maeglin haltingly says, "braid it for you."  
  
Turgon blinks, and nods, then shivers suddenly when Maeglin gathers the locks to begin his new task. The momentary light touch over the skin of his neck raises hairs, and Turgon feels foolish again for a reason he can't quite place. The steady pace of the weaving soon sets him at ease again though, and he leans into it as before, careful not to crowd Maeglin too much while he works or disrupt his motions by turning the wrong way. It's a warm and familial thing, this small moment, though in ordinary circumstances Maeglin might be considered too old to sit and braid someone else's hair as if he has no cares. Maeglin's circumstances have never been ordinary though, and Turgon is more than happy to oblige the break of custom, just to see him the slightest bit more at home. Just to be near him without seeing him subtly flinch away, this one time.  
  
It doesn't seem long at all before Maeglin is finished again, though Turgon knows they must have been at this for hours now. When the last plait is tied off (where does Maeglin secret those little leather bands? he wonders) he feels hands rest uncertainly on his shoulders. He can practically feel the tension in Maeglin, can feel him drawing breath as if to ask something else, but it never comes. The breath trails off into nothing, and the moment passes in emptiness. Maeglin's hands slip away like the touch of a regretful ghost.  
  
To cover his discomfort, Turgon turns around and raises his own hands to test the braids. They're quite fine, though it's with a strange emotion in the pit of his stomach that it occurrs to him that Maeglin has given him a style a bit too similar to how Aredhel once wore her hair. _Did he sit with her like this_ , he muses, _and braid her hair for her?_  
  
Maeglin, however, seems to have misinterpreted his pensiveness as disapproval.  
  
"I can fix it-" he begins, but Turgon puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Maeglin looks like a doe transfixed by lantern light, his eyes wide and liquid black.  
  
Turgon squeezes lightly in what he hopes is a reassuring way, and says, "It's alright. I quite like it, in fact! You did very well." Then he removes his hand, before the bittersweet warmth filling his heart and lungs motivates him to do anything more foolish, like hug the boy.  
  
Maeglin looks confused. "I... thank you."  
  
The praise seems to have set him off balance, though for a moment he looks up from beneath his lashes with what might be shy pleasure. Then his dark eyes cut away, looking around himself as though searching out spies hidden in the corners of the room. He eventually settles on the window, and surprise flashes across his face when he takes in the level of the light. He stands abruptly, leaving Turgon sitting.  
  
"I've kept you too long," he says, "It's gotten late."  
  
Turgon shakes his head, rising more slowly so that they may speak to one another more evenly.  
  
"It's not so late yet, and I have nothing pressing to attend to at this hour." he assures him. "You could stay a while longer." He is not sure what they would do - he does not know if Maeglin enjoys wine, or playing at cards. He knows Maeglin draws, but he has no charcoal or any proper supplies in this room right now, and he curses himself for it though he knows he could not have foreseen the need. But Maeglin only shakes his head, looking slightly chagrined.  
  
"We'll miss our suppers, surely. Perhaps..." and here Maeglin looks down. "...some other time."  
  
Then he's bowing shallowly, and Turgon wishes he would _stop that_. What must he do to convince his nephew that he need not be so formal in a private setting? That he need not bow and scrape so much to anyone, least of all to Turgon, his uncle? Are they not of the same blood?  
  
As he reaches the entranceway, Turgon calls "Maeglin", and he stops. He looks back.  
  
With deep feeling Turgon tells him "Please come here any time you like. My door is always open for you."  
  
Maeglin looks at him a bit longer. Then he nods gently, and leaves. Turgon sighs, and looks around the room, considering what to do to occupy another evening spent alone. His eyes fall on the papers that Maeglin left behind in his haste.  
  
A week later, Turgon finds a hair ornament left out of place on his desk. Made of white gold, with a simple but exquisitely crafted design. He fastens it on immediately, and it sits as though it isn't there at all. It never snags.  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to practice Turgon's PoV, because it's really challenging to me. I guess you could call it character building?


End file.
